


set me as a seal upon thine heart

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's strange," Aramis said. His voice was flat. "I think I always knew the man he'd been had died in the forest. I just didn't realize it until there was a stranger dead in my arms."</p><p>- -</p><p>Athos and Porthos show Aramis that he's loved, in the aftermath of "The Good Soldier." (A missing scene from beginning of the episode, and a rather longer one from the end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	set me as a seal upon thine heart

**Author's Note:**

> over 4,000 words of pure pwp. what has this fandom done to me. (title is from the Song of Solomon 8:6, which seemed appropriate for Aramis.) written in a few late nights; all mistakes mine. I seem to have a thing for Athos' POV.

The four of them had taken only a few steps from Madame Bonacieux's house before Aramis stopped in the street. "d'Artagnan, would you give us a moment?" 

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. They should have known he wouldn't let them get away with it, Athos thought.

d'Artagnan looked between the three of them--Aramis' clear irritation, Porthos and Athos' mulish expressions--and nodded, his eyebrows climbing up towards his hair. He walked a ways up the street and became very absorbed in the bakery window. Athos snorted inwardly. The boy couldn't have looked more like he was eavesdropping if he tried.

Aramis rounded on Porthos and Athos, anger plain in his face. "Next time, could you two be _slightly_ less transparent in your desire to start a fight?"

"I don't know what you mean," Athos said, his voice clipped.

Porthos snorted. "He means we're not sorry."

"Marsac came to us for help--"

"He only came to us because you caught him trying to assassinate the Duke of Savoy," Athos snapped. "Or have you forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't _forgotten--"_ Aramis stopped short, his brows knitting, and he looked between the two of them. He saw something in their faces, he had to, and he muttered a curse under his breath. "Oh, for the love of--are you two _jealous?"_

"No," Athos said, in the same instant as Porthos said, "Yes." Athos glared at him, and Porthos shrugged.

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose, looking flustered and irritated and still, somehow, lovely. "Whatever you two are thinking," he began, his voice low, "would you get it out of your heads? Marsac and I were over a very long time ago, as evidenced by his _leaving me in the forest to die,_ and I am _not--"_ His voice climbed up into the higher registers, and Porthos jerked his head in warning towards d'Artagnan.

Aramis looked quickly around at d'Artagnan, who'd drifted a tiny bit closer and was blatantly doing his damndest to listen in. Aramis growled under his breath, taking a step closer to them and speaking very quickly and quietly. "I am not going to--to--jump back into his arms, or whatever ridiculous idea you both seem to have, so--" He glared at the pair of them, enunciating his next words very carefully. "Would you _both--just--drop it?"_

Athos and Porthos looked at each other. "Fine," Athos said.

"Fine," Porthos echoed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Aramis looked back and forth between them, plainly still suspicious, but their faces were unreadable. "Fine," he agreed at last, and turned on his heel and stalked up the street. He grabbed d'Artagnan by the ear as he passed him and dragged the youth along, lecturing him all the while on the virtue of respecting private conversations.

Athos and Porthos fell into step behind them, following at a slight distance until Aramis' temper had cooled.

"Did you mean that?" Porthos said to Athos in an undertone.

"No."

"Good, me neither."

\- - -

They waited for Aramis in his room. Athos felt completely helpless, and hated it. He didn't know how to make this better. He had hated Marsac, blindly and with reckless abandon, because Marsac had left Aramis--by itself, the worst kind of sin, but even more than that, had left him alone, surrounded by the bodies of his friends, and that was completely unforgivable. Porthos understood, thankfully. (Athos also hated Marsac for having had Aramis, even though it was years before Athos had known him. Thankfully Porthos understood that as well.) Marsac had been a deserter, an assassin, and a murderer; it was hard for Athos to feel the loss of such a man in the world.

But Aramis had loved him. Athos knew how it felt to lose someone you'd loved, lain with, trusted with your life, and there was no way to fix it, no way to patch the empty place. He could tolerate it for himself--but he couldn't bear the thought of brilliant, beautiful Aramis having to live with a gaping empty wound in his heart.

"He's gonna be soaked to the bone," Porthos muttered, standing at the window and staring out into the street below. The rain had started unexpectedly (fitting for a burial, Athos thought), and had only fallen harder as the afternoon wore on, turning all the streets to muck and the air to a gray and filmy haze.

Athos reached out from his chair beside the fireplace and picked up the poker, stirring up the fire. Porthos nodded his approval, his eyes still on the street below. His whole body was tense, his arms and shoulders bunched against the urge to storm out of the building, find Aramis, and drag him, bodily if need be, back to the warmth and safety of his and Athos' arms.

Or so Athos imagined. It wouldn't be the first time Porthos had done it.

Porthos let out his breath explosively, nodding down into the street. "There he is." He turned away from the window, pacing to where Athos sat, then back again. The nervous energy crackling off him practically made Athos' hair stand on end. He reached out, laying a hand on Porthos' arm as he passed his chair, and Porthos calmed slightly, stopping beside him.

"He might want us to leave," Porthos said. He sounded collected, but Athos could feel the tremor in his muscles. That, above all, was what Porthos dreaded--Aramis pushing him away, discarding him like an old cloak. It made Athos all the more determined to make sure Porthos knew how important he was, to him and to Aramis. Of course, he needed Aramis' cooperation for that, and at least today, he wasn't sure if he was going to get it.

"I'm sure he won't," Athos said, quiet and calm, with a conviction that he didn't quite feel. Aramis could be spiteful and cruel some days, when he wanted to be. 

As he heard Aramis' boots on the stairs, Athos offered up a silent prayer to God (not that he believed, but Aramis did, and perhaps Aramis' God would intercede) that today would not be one of those days. Aramis read people like books, and when he wanted to be harsh, he never had to reach far for the absolute cruelest thing to say. It had been an emotionally exhausting day, and Athos worried more for Porthos than for himself. Aramis couldn't say anything that Athos hadn't already called himself in his own mind.

The door swung open, and Aramis walked in. He was, as Porthos had predicted, soaked to the bone, his dark curls plastered to his face and his clothes stuck to the planes and curves of his body. He glanced up, and Athos' mind shuddered back from the emptiness in his eyes. Aramis was always so lively, his sharp tongue always at the ready and his eyes dancing with laughter. 

But now, pale with cold, dark hair matted down and graveyard dirt spattering his boots, his eyes were devoid of all emotion, and his face was hollow and tired. He looked dead.

Porthos' breath hissed between his teeth, and he was moving before Athos could even unfreeze his limbs. This spectral Aramis made him absolutely cold. He was absurdly grateful for Porthos, who went straight to Aramis and put an arm around him, guiding him to the fire and peeling off his wet jacket, all the while murmuring gentle, comforting nonsense. Porthos had seen the worst of human despair, in a way Athos never had, and he didn't know if he should be grateful or sad that it didn't shake Porthos at all.

Aramis let himself be manhandled into a place by the fire, sinking onto a stool and sitting unmoving as Porthos tugged off his boots. He stared into the fire, dark eyes flat and emotionless. He didn't seem to have even registered their presence. 

Athos stared, transfixed, until Porthos threw Aramis' wet boots into his lap. He jolted back into the moment, and looked up to catch Porthos' sharp _would-you-say-something-you-damned-useless-fool_ glare. He swallowed, setting Aramis' boots on the hearth, and moved a little closer. "Aramis?" he said, hating the hesitation in his own voice.

"It's strange," Aramis said. His voice was flat. "I think I always knew the man he'd been had died in the forest. I just didn't realize it until there was a stranger dead in my arms."

Porthos sat back on his heels on the hearthstones, his hand heavy on Aramis' knee. "You always look for the best in people, darling," he said. His gruff voice was quiet, peculiarly gentle.

Aramis nodded dully, still staring into the fire. "It's a failing, I know."

"Hush," Athos said, at last unwinding himself from his chair. He moved to stand behind Aramis, and rested his hands on Aramis' wet shoulders (trying to feel the warmth of his body underneath, convince himself that this wasn't just some shadow of Aramis the way Marsac had been a shadow of himself). "Kindness is never a failing, Aramis."

"Naivete is."

"You loved him," Porthos said, with no hint of the pain those words had to cause showing on his face. Athos envied him. "Of course you wanted him to be better."

Aramis leaned back against Athos, his eyes closing, and Athos ran one hand through Aramis' dripping curls. The ends were cold with the wet outdoors, but the mass of his hair was warm with the heat of his body. Athos kept his hand there, taking nearly as much comfort from the gesture as he'd meant it to give.

Aramis reached out and covered Porthos' hand with his own, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly. "I don't deserve you two."

"Let's not start on that," Athos murmured, bending to press a kiss to his hair.

The side of Porthos' mouth tugged up. "We'll be here all night trying to convince each other who's the most unworthy."

Aramis chuckled once, a weary little half-sigh, and affection hit Athos under his heart like a pistol recoil. He traced his fingers down the back of Aramis' neck, and was rewarded with a tender shiver that he could feel through all of Aramis' body pressed against his.

"Cold?" Porthos asked solicitously, but a flash of heat was starting to kindle in his gaze.

"No," Aramis said. Just then, however, his traitorous muscles shuddered, giving the lie to his denial.

"You're still soaked," Athos said, hating himself for getting distracted. He crouched down and reached around Aramis' body to unlace the tie at the neck of his shirt, and Aramis leaned back into the circle of his arms, turning his head to nuzzle at Athos' neck. Athos allowed him the contact a brief moment before pulling away, tugging meaningfully on the hem of Aramis' shirt.

Aramis raised his arms obediently over his head, and Athos peeled the soaked linen off. He dropped it unceremoniously behind him, distracted by the damp expanse of Aramis' torso, golden in the firelight. He bent to press a kiss to the base of his neck, and Aramis shivered again, leaning back into the touch. Athos smoothed his hands down Aramis' arms, pressing open-mouthed kisses in a line across his shoulder. He licked the droplets of rain away that fell from Aramis' hair, tasting salty sweat and the lingering bitterness of gunpowder, and Aramis shuddered all over, reaching up and sliding his hand into Athos' hair. Athos could feel Aramis' breath starting to come faster, and he put a gentling hand on his waist.

"Beautiful," Porthos said, his voice a rough rasp. Athos hadn't forgotten him, but he was surprised Porthos hadn't moved; he still knelt on the floor at Aramis' feet, hands on Aramis' knees, looking up at him with a dark, intent expression on his face. Aramis half-laughed again, his voice slightly strained, and he tugged Porthos up towards him with their still-joined hands. Athos felt the tension bleed from Aramis' frame when Porthos kissed him, his wide hands cupping Aramis' jaw, framing his face. Porthos always kissed like he meant it, deep and steady, like he could kiss you for a week and never get tired, and Aramis always melted into it. Athos smiled and slid his hands around to Aramis' front, tracing the lines of his abdomen with a steady, even touch. (Aramis was ticklish if it was too light.)

Aramis panted against Porthos' mouth, his body tensing and relaxing in shuddering waves under Porthos' kiss and Athos' hands. Porthos pulled back to catch his breath, gasping slightly, and Aramis moaned in protest, reaching out for him and dragging him back into a kiss. 

"Easy," Athos breathed, wrapping Aramis tighter in his arms, feeling Porthos' body press against the backs of his hands. "We've got you."

"We're not going anywhere," Porthos murmured, stroking his thumbs across Aramis' cheeks. 

"No," Aramis agreed. His hands were shaking, though, as he laid them across Porthos' broad shoulders. He turned his head slightly, seeking Athos, and Athos rose to meet him. He kissed the corner of Aramis' mouth, then his lips, as Aramis twisted in his embrace, and he could taste saltwater as Aramis kissed him fiercely.

"No, you're not," Aramis said when he broke away, his voice slightly stronger. He writhed in their embrace, just once, enough to press himself fully against both of them. "Take me to bed."

Athos met Porthos' eyes over Aramis' shoulder. Porthos looked like he was drowning, and Athos couldn't blame him.

"Whatever you want, love," Porthos said. In one motion, he slipped one arm under Aramis' legs, wrapped the other around his waist, and stood, lifting Aramis easily.

Aramis laughed breathlessly, and some of the chill left Athos' bones at the sound. He followed them, watching Aramis kiss every inch of Porthos he could reach as Porthos carried him to the bed. Porthos restrained himself admirably until he could spill Aramis onto the bed, then followed him down to kiss him thoroughly. Athos knelt beside them, and as his weight dipped the bed, Aramis reached up for him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and hauling him down for a kiss as well.

Porthos pressed a kiss to Athos' shoulder before pulling away, and Athos didn't know or care what he was doing until Aramis gasped and bucked against him, making an incoherent sound of approval. Athos looked down Aramis' body to see Porthos tugging Aramis' soaked breeches and smallclothes from his body. Aramis lifted his hips to help, squirming as Porthos stripped the wet fabric from his legs, and then he was naked on the bed between them, skin still shining with rain, lithe and writhing and _beautiful._ Athos bent to kiss him, unable to help himself. It was like gravity, a pull impossible to ignore.

"What do you need?" he murmured against Aramis' lips.

"It would be nice," Aramis said, his voice raw and shattered, "if you would both do your very utmost to make me forget my own name."

Porthos groaned and surged up Aramis' body to kiss him again, openmouthed and desperate. Athos tugged off his own shirt, unbearably warm with Porthos' heat so close and a slow burn starting under his own skin. He leaned back to toss his shirt off the side of the bed, and reached for the drawer where he knew Aramis kept a bottle of oil.

For just a moment, he wasn't touching either of them, and Aramis jerked against Porthos, crying out against his lips and reaching blindly for where Athos had been. "Athos!"

He sounded so lost, so genuinely frightened that Athos had disappeared into thin air--and how could he not, Athos berated himself, after Marsac, after everything that had happened that day? He reached out and caught Aramis' hand, sliding back and kissing it. "I'm here, I'm sorry, I'm still here."

Aramis gasped in relief, squeezing his hand so hard he felt his bones grind against each other--then fell back into the sheets, covering his eyes with one hand. He was shaking again, and Porthos stroked his face, making soothing, gentle noises. Athos lay down beside him, touching as much of Aramis' body with his own as he could. It was a moment before Aramis lifted his hand, and his eyes were shining. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice thick. "God, how pathetic I must seem to you both right now."

"No," Porthos said. He reached out and covered Aramis' lips with two fingers, his expression fierce. "Don't you ever cut yourself down in this bed."

Aramis closed his eyes, tears gleaming on his eyelashes, and Athos reached up and brushed them away. Aramis caught his fingers and brought them to his lips, kissing Athos' fingertips in silent thanks. After a moment, Aramis opened his eyes, flashing Athos a helpless, warm look before looking up at Porthos. "You're right. You always are. Kiss me?"

Porthos did, leaning in to slant his mouth across Aramis' in a far more gentle kiss than anything that had come before it. Athos watched, heat curling and twisting in his belly as the kiss slowly deepened, until Aramis was curling his hands in the collar of the shirt Porthos still wore, his knuckles white with tension. Unable to help himself, Athos reached down, his hand skimming the flat, twitching surface of Aramis' belly, and Aramis broke the kiss with a gasp, twisting and reaching out for Athos.

"We've got you," Porthos said, his eyes intent on Aramis' face. And Aramis was a pretty picture just then, his jaw dropping slack as Athos finally got a hand around him. Athos couldn't help staring, as well, watching the way Aramis' face went blank with pleasure as Athos moved his hand. He was burning hot in Athos' grip, so hard it had to hurt and dripping wet. His hips were twitching, tiny stuttering jerks against Athos, and when Athos slowed the slide of his hand, he was rewarded with a musical curse and Aramis' hips thrusting up against him.

"Please," Aramis gasped, his eyes shut tight again. "I can still remember my name, can still remember everything-- _please,_ Athos, Porthos--"

Athos met Porthos' eyes. They'd grown so adept at reading each other's faces that words were unnecessary. Porthos arched an eyebrow, and Athos nodded, rolling his shoulders back slightly. Porthos grinned tightly, then reached for Aramis.

Aramis made a sound like he'd been punched when they flipped him, rolling him easily on top of Athos. He gasped in another breath just as quickly, however, when Athos pulled him down and devoured his mouth. Aramis sprawled on top of him, his hips stuttering down against Athos' abdomen, and when Aramis slid just a few inches back, Athos suddenly, viscerally realized how hard _he_ was. He bucked up against Aramis, unable to help himself, and Aramis moaned encouragement, kissing him again. Even drunk on pleasure as he was, Aramis deftly unlaced Athos' breeches and smallclothes, and Athos groaned as his painfully hard cock was freed.

Porthos, who'd been divesting himself of his clothes, snapped his fingers, and Athos came back to himself in a daze. He fumbled around in the sheets for the bottle of oil where he'd dropped it, and tossed it to Porthos without even looking. Aramis was already too far gone to notice, and he only made a dizzy noise of consent when Athos urged him up onto his hands and knees. 

He gasped and threw his head back, however, when Porthos' oil-slick fingers stroked down his cock and lower. "Oh, God, yes, please," he choked, and when Athos scraped blunt fingernails over his ribs, he cried out aloud, shuddering between the two of them. He was beautiful, completely caught up in his pleasure, and Athos felt his hips flex up into the space between them. He couldn't help himself; maybe he was caught up, as well.

Porthos, thank God and the saints for him, seemed perfectly in control. He and Aramis had been lovers long before Athos had joined them, and Porthos knew Aramis' body as well as or better than his own. He knew exactly when to add another finger, what rhythm to use, where to find the place that made Aramis gasp and cry out for God in three different languages. And oh, he was magnificent when he did, his hair plastered to his head with sweat instead of rain now and his skin flushed in the firelight. Athos was drunk with it, the sounds that Aramis was making, the sight of him completely out of control between the two of them. The air was thick and heavy with Porthos and Aramis' leather-and-gunpowder smells, and Athos' control was stretched thin. 

Porthos twisted his wrist, and Aramis _keened,_ his body arching like a bow. Athos moved without thinking, reaching up and locking his arms in Aramis', stopping him from being able to twist or pull away. Aramis made another high, desperate sound, held tight between them, unable to twist away from whatever magic Porthos was working. His eyes fluttered, his jaw working soundlessly, and finally he managed to gasp, his voice utterly wrecked, "For the love of God, fuck me, _please."_

Athos nearly came then and there. Porthos, however, only smiled and bent forward, curling his body around Aramis'. He kissed his shoulder, unbearably gently. Then, without any warning, he bit down and twisted his wrist again, and Aramis' whole body jerked. Athos, however, had seen that coming a mile away, and he clamped his hand down at the base of Aramis' cock.

Aramis' eyes actually rolled back in his head, and his arms gave out. He collapsed on top of Athos' chest, his hips jerking forward in a desperate search for friction, and Athos bit his own lip hard enough to draw blood, focusing on the ordinary pain and not the exquisite agony of Aramis writhing against him like a demon possessed. 

_"Now_ I'm going to fuck you," Porthos said, his voice like gravel, vibrating down Athos' spine, and Aramis could only gasp before Porthos drove into him. The pace was just this side of brutal, and it rocked Athos, too, as Aramis was driven back and forth against him. He could barely stand it, it was so good, Aramis' body shuddering and pliant against him, and Porthos braced over the both of them, shutting out the rest of the universe, narrowing the entire world to this bed and the three of them.

"It's just us," Athos whispered, tightening his arms around Aramis and driving his hips up in counterpoint to Porthos' strokes. "Nothing but us three." Aramis actually sobbed, shaking his head back and forth, past words, and Athos stroked his fingers through Aramis' damp, matted hair. "Say it back to me, Aramis."

Aramis' throat worked, but no sound came out. Porthos slowed, drawing very slowly back, then pushing back in half as slow again, a torturous burn. Aramis' back arched, his mouth falling open. "Nothing but us three," he gasped.

"That's right," Porthos murmured against his shoulder blades, and Aramis sobbed again, reaching back wildly for Porthos. Porthos caught his hand, lowering it to the bed, and Athos covered their hands with one of his, tangling all their fingers together. He could feel all three of their pulses thundering wildly, but there was a harmony there that could make a man believe in God.

Porthos met his eyes, and Athos nodded. He reached up with his other hand to frame Aramis' sweat-soaked face, and he pressed a tender, almost chaste kiss to his lips. "Come for us, Aramis."

Porthos slammed forward one more time, and Aramis' whole body tensed. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his hips snapped against Athos, and when he came in white-hot ropes across Athos' stomach, Athos closed his eyes and followed.

When he opened his eyes again, Porthos was curled along the length of Aramis' back, shuddering violently, his mouth half-open in a gasp, and Athos' stomach clenched at the thought of being inside Aramis during all of that. The thought spiked a leftover flare of pure lust, and his body's valiant effort to come a second time left him light-headed. 

Porthos was grinning at him when he finally opened his eyes again. Athos rolled his eyes at him (all that he needed to say), and reached up for Aramis.

Aramis lay motionless between them, his chest heaving, and for a moment Athos wondered if he'd blacked out. "Aramis," he said, stroking his brow with the hand that was still cradling his head. "Are you still with us?"

Aramis feebly squeezed their fingers, and Porthos and Athos shared a relieved look over his head. After a moment, Aramis got a hand underneath himself and managed to push himself half-upright. His hair fell in his face, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips were kiss-bitten and swollen. Athos' heart swelled with so much emotion that he thought his ribs would break with the force of it. "God," Aramis said eloquently, his voice scraped raw, and Porthos pressed a kiss to his shoulder blades. "You're both magnificent."

Athos laughed quietly, and Aramis kissed his chest, his eyes warm on Athos. "I mean that," he said, and twisted his head to look at Porthos, who gazed back with soft eyes. "Thank you."

That he would thank them for something like this tore at Athos' heart in a strange way, and his throat closed on anything he could say. Porthos murmured "Any time" for the both of them, then sighed and pushed himself up. Aramis hissed slightly, reaching back for Porthos, and Porthos ran his hands up and down Aramis' spine as he pulled out as slowly as he could. Aramis dropped his head back to Athos' chest with a bereft sound when Porthos had finished, and Porthos kissed his back again before climbing off the bed and moving to the window. They'd left a basin outside on the sill to catch the rainwater, and Porthos returned with it and a rag to clean the both of them up. The both of them, since Athos' limbs still weren't responding to his commands, and all he could do was lie there, holding Aramis and stroking his face as Porthos ran the cool, wet cloth over their skin.

"I thought I was the one who got fucked, not you," Aramis murmured, and Athos could feel the curl of Aramis' grin against his chest. He rejoiced inwardly--this was their Aramis, smiling, joking, warm and content and boneless against them. 

"You shudder like a demon when you come," Athos said, running his hand through Aramis' hair again. It was a bit of a fixation. "Next time, we'll get a mirror so you can see for yourself."

"Ooh, I like that," Aramis laughed. Athos' heart soared at the sound.

"Or I'm just that good," Porthos said, winking at Athos. He was grinning too, his face bright and warm with Aramis' laughter.

Aramis laughed again, tired but genuine, and Porthos and Athos smiled at each other over his shoulder. 

"Get down here, Porthos," Athos sighed, reaching under them for one of the blankets, and with some wriggling, the three of them were tucked under the soft sheets.

Aramis settled down between Athos and Porthos with a groan, too well-fucked to stay awake. Within moments, his breath evened out, and he was sleeping soundly between them.

"I told you he'd want us to stay," Athos said, very quietly, to Porthos.

Porthos chuckled, just as quietly, and lifted himself up on one arm. He reached over Aramis' sleeping form, and Athos met him halfway. They kissed, long and slow and unhurried, and Porthos was smiling when they finally broke apart.

"I told _you_ I could make him come on just my cock," Porthos said, perfectly matter-of-fact, and Athos accidentally woke Aramis with his stifled snorts of laughter.

"Are you two talking about me?" Aramis mumbled, rolling onto his back and pulling them both closer to him. 

"After a fashion," Athos managed to say.

Porthos wrapped arm arm around Aramis, reaching out and hooking Athos' hand as well. "Just that we love you." He grinned across the pillow at Athos, and Athos smiled back, his heart warm and beating at his ribs like a caged bird. It was a feeling he'd missed.

"Yes," he agreed, and Aramis murmured happily, settling down between them once more.

"I knew that already," he said, and was asleep again within moments.


End file.
